


Bound By Blood

by VentrueRosary



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Because my city now, F/M, I will throw the vtm lore out the window, Original character romance, Victorian era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25387852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VentrueRosary/pseuds/VentrueRosary
Summary: What comes to mind when you think of a monster? A hulking form of fur-bound muscle crowned by a face that is a sickening cross between man and wolf? Leathery wings baring aloft a reptilian form of scales, claws and fire? A shuddering mass of flesh and tentacles, festooned with so many eyes and mouths it is impossible to tell where its face is located, if it even ascribes to the same laws of anatomy we do?These are all monsters of  fantastical and romanticized imaginings born from the mind of a writer enamoured with drawing clear distinctions between man and monster, hero and villain. But the truth is much more terrifying than could ever be dreamed up from even the most depraved and disturbed creatives.The real monsters walk among us, their undead flesh puppeteered by blood, the blood they partake from the veins of the living. They are clever and cunning so as not to leave a crimson breadcrumb trail to their habitats. But never fool yourself. Monsters are real, and they look just like you and I.
Kudos: 2





	1. Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first chapter of Bound By Blood. Apologies that it is short, but it seemed like a good point to end it at. I hope you enjoy, and if you want to see more, subscribe to get notifications, and leave kudos or comments (thats the secret to getting creators to provide more content!)

Sweat pours down from his forehead, the shovel nearly slipping from his slick hands. The skin blisters then bursts, yet he continues, even as he feels his skin might flay and peel into curls from the overwhelming heat. His throat burns with an intensity to rival the sun. He swallows, but there is no moisture in his mouth to disperse.  
The shovel head strikes a solid object.  
'Mr Hawthorne! Mr Hawthorne!'  
Aloysius emerges from his tent, his eyes alert. He lifts his brimmed hat to wipe away the perspiration gathering on his brow. 'You've found it?'  
'Found something, sir.'  
Aloysius whistles. 'All hands on deck! The artifact must be secured.'  
Five different sets of hands scrape away handfuls of sand, digging down until they unearth a small wooden lock box.  
'By god, we've found it.'

* * *

Aloysius sits in his study, staring at the artifact motionless on top of his desk, radiating an aura of menace rivaled only by mystery. The symbol intrigues him, similar to an ankh but with unique deviations. The two lines that branch out either side just beneath the oval shape end with two hooks, resembling a sword guard. Though if it is indeed of Egyptian origin, he would be less than useful. He needs Claude.

* * *

Rosemary's eyes flutter open to the gloom of night. She sighs in frustration as the murmur of voices drift up into her room. Her father and...Claude? What business would he have here so late?  
Rosemary dons her robe over her nightgown. No doubt Claude is encouraging her father’s unhealthy work addiction--work that could wait until more sensible hours.  
Descending the stairs, she spies the two pouring over an object hidden from her view.  
Claude turns with a pleasant smile when her feet reach the last stair.  
'Good evening, Miss Hawthorne.'  
'Mr Blackwood, father.'  
'Rose, what are you doing up?' Her father’s shoulders hug his ears in guilt.  
'I believe this is our doing. We interrupted your beauty sleep, did we not? How lovely it is to see you again.'  
'And you, Mr Blackwood, even though it is unsociably late . I have not seen you both so studious in some years.'  
'Well, it was quite the discovery. Come, take a look.' Her father gestures her over to the source of their fascination.  
A wooden box no bigger than her jewelry box with a strange symbol on the lid. Nothing too extraordinary, but her father always said those that appear most mundane are often most valuable.  
'What is it?'  
'That is exactly what we were just discussing. Or rather, Claude was educating me. My knowledge of Egyptology is less than a child's.'  
'I must admit I need more time with the object and my notes to learn more. At best I can the date of creation , and the object inside is something considered sacred. Most likely used in rituals.'  
'Then you must bring your notes and books here! Let us reach the bottom of this mystery.'  
'Father, are you sure--'  
‘Capital idea, Aloysius! I would be honored to work alongside you.’  
'Of course! It’s not every day a discovery like this is made! Where is Eddard? Eddard! Coffee at once. Will you be joining us, Rosie dear?’  
Rosemary has already reached the door, intending to leave the schoolboys to their playing. ‘No thank you, father. I am partaking of this wonderful invention known as “sleep”. You should try it some time.’  
‘Sleep is for the uneducated!’  
‘The consider me dull as a lamppost.’ Rosemary calls over her shoulder. ‘I bid you both goodnight.’


	2. Thicker than Water

The following evening Rosemary and her mother dine alone, her father vanishing into the study with his yet again, a spring in every step.  
'How long do you think it will take?' Rosemary asks her mother, brooding over her meal on the other side of the table.  
Edan rolls her eyes, stabbing the minted lamb on her plate with a vengeance. 'For as long as he can get away with it. I swear, he would have wed and fathered his antiques if he could have.'  
Venom seeps into every word. Rosemary picks at her food in silence, watching the flush in her mother’s cheeks rise as the wine in her glass diminishes. And her second glass. And her third. Mother only drinks when she grows angry. And she drank every night these past three days. Calm for now, but the storm would soon come.  
'May I be excused?'  
'You're just like your father. So eager to be away from mother dearest?' Edan dismisses her with a wave. She puts too much force into the movement and topples out of her chair with a resounding thud.  
'Mother!' Rosemary rushes over. 'Are you alright?'  
'Don't touch me! Do not touch me…’ Edan rights herself, setting the chair back on its legs. ‘Oh I hate that look you are giving me.’  
‘What look?’ Rosemary only feels concern.  
‘That judgement. I know what you’re thinking. My mother is a pathetic drunkard who can’t even sit in a chair right. I’m sure you would much prefer to dine with your father.’  
‘Oh come now, that is nonsense.’  
Edan snorts an unladylike laugh. ‘I should add “lying” to your repertoire of classes. An important life skill that will serve you well when you find yourself in my position. Wed to a man you didn’t choose, with your own judgmental weepy-eyed child.’  
‘Mother, perhaps you should retire for the evening. I don’t think you quite know what you are saying’  
‘I know perfectly well. Do not presume to order me, child.’  
‘I’m not ordering you, I--’  
‘You wanted to be excused. You have been excused. Now leave. I would like to drink in peace.’ Edan turns away from her, pouring herself another glass. Rosemary watched the red bloom upwards until it flowers beneath the rim. The bottle is nearly empty. How long had she harboured these thoughts? How long had she hated father? They both smile in their wedding portrait, but is it merely a mask?  
Edan raises the glass to her lips. The wine makes her say such ugly things. It turns her from a dignified, intelligent lady to a slurring, hateful woman. Rosemary wants her mother back. She dashes the glass out of her hand. It smashes to the ground, spilling out its contents onto the rug. Edan’s eyes fixate on the wine slowly soaking through the threads until she turns her gaze to Rosemary, eyes burning with fury.  
‘What in God’s good name do you think you’re doing? How dare you--’  
‘It’s for your own good, mother. I’m trying to help--’  
Edan’s hand strikes her face. The slapping sound resounds through the dining room before bells toll in her ear. She raises her fingers to the tender skin, prickling hot with pain.  
Edan’s mouth falls slack in surprise. ‘Rosemary, dear, I didn’t--’  
She flees the dining room, cradling the injury. _I won’t cry_ … she repeats the words like a mantra to herself, until she is in the sanctuary of her own room.

* * *

More guests arrive at the Hawthorne manor the following eve. Rosemary watches from the mezzanine as Eddard opens the door to a woman flirting with her fiftieth year, same as Claude, her greying hair pulled into a flawless bun. A younger man in his twenties, blonde hair smoothed back from his classically handsome features, accompanies her.  
Her father steps into view, sweeping his arm in a grandiose gesture of welcome.  
'Mrs Blackwood, and you must be Julian? Oh please, do come in. Your father is just in the study--Charles take their luggage to their rooms won't you?'  
Indeed they have trunks with them, suitable for long travels from home. Clearly they packed with more than a few days in mind.  
Julian’s grey eyes meet Rosemary's, offering a gentle smile that alerts the others to her presence.  
'Rosemary, please, come and meet Claude's family. His wife, Lorelai and their son Julian.'  
'Pleased to meet you.'  
'Rosemary, right?' Lorelai says. 'Such a pretty name. I was hoping to meet your mother--I must pay my respects to the matron of the house.'  
'Of course I'll take you there now. Rosie, darling, show Julian to a guest room?'  
He leaves before she can think up a refusal. Then it is just the two of them alone.  
'Please, follow me.' She leads him up the stairs. 'How long do you plan to stay?'  
'That will depend on my father.'  
'As well as mine,' she is quick to remind him. This is, after all, their home.  
'Yes of course. We would not wish to wear out our welcome.'  
'Oh, but I am remiss in my words. We are thrilled to be your hosts.’ She turns to him with a smile she prays looks genuine. ‘Your room.’  
Julian places his hand on the door, blocking her path. She looks up at him, questioning just what he is doing...then his eyes captivate her. She is enthralled by their gaze.  
'Won’t you come in?'  
Her skin flushes warm with embarrassment, ‘Oh, but that simply wouldn’t do. You are a guest, and I hardly know you.’  
‘It won’t be anything untoward, I promise you. Just a moment of your time is all I ask for.’  
‘Well, it would be rude for a lady to turn down a gentleman’s request. Just a few minutes yes?’  
Julian opens the door with a smile. ‘Of course. It won’t take long.’

* * *

Rosemary blinks, for one moment uncertain of her surroundings. Julian’s room...ah, yes, she had escorted him here. But why does she feel as though she is forgetting something?


	3. Shall I Compare Thee to a Rose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to have this up much sooner, but ended up in hospital! Hope you enjoy this, expect Chapter 4 up in a few days

So much changed in their home, ever since her father returned with the small wooden box. An unassuming little object with hardly any distinguishing features, not even a seam to suggest it could be opened, yet now it is under the study of two of London’s most notable scholars and eating away all of their time. Four days later and nothing to show for it. That, or they deigned not to share their progress.   
Rosemary knows better than most research and uncovering the secrets of artifacts are time-consuming endeavors, but her father and Claude are both savants. Alone, Aloysius discovered several pieces of information about more fantastical and mysterious finds in the same span of time.   
He still has yet to join her and Edan for a meal which has not gone unnoticed by her increasingly surly mother. For all the remorse she displayed following their disastrous dinner, she has yet to change her demeanor. Now, they eat in silence, but she prefers it to the vitriol she spits in her drunken state.   
Rosemary tiredly sighs as she finally reaches the sanctuary of her bedroom. A mostly uneventful day, but the duller they are the longer they drag. Dull days exhaust her to no end.   
Two quiet rappings echo on her wooden door. Rosemary glances at the clock resting on her mantle. The hour hand accusingly points to the eleventh hour of the day. Her mother would already have retired, and her father likely burns the midnight oil with Claude.   
‘Who is it?’  
‘Julian.’  
Rosemary opens her door to a fully alert Julian, dressed for the day rather than the night.  
'Good evening.'  
'And you to, Sir--'  
'Please, no honorifics. Just Julian.'  
'Julian. Is there something you need? I was about to retire for the night.'  
'I find myself restless and was wondering if you would do me the honour of escorting me to the gardens. Such a beautiful sight should be shared.’  
‘Oh…’ she responds, glancing back at the clock once more. To think the two of them might spend these intimate hours in each other's company… ‘Very well. I would be glad to, though you might enjoy it better during the day.’  
‘Nighttime suits me just fine.’  
Moonlight dapples the entire scene in a soft, silver glow, quieting the palette of hues surrounding them. To Rosemary, it’s a pretty collection of nameless colours and shapes. But Julian names each and every one, citing facts about the nutrients that encourage growth, medicinal benefits, and pointing out poisonous breeds.   
'Are you a botanist, Julian?'  
'Indeed. What better hobby than one that births life and beauty? What about you?’  
‘I would rather paint their portrait than nurture them myself.’  
‘I suppose pretty women should not be trawling through the mud and worms.’ He snaps off a white, five-petaled flower, growing along vines braided through the arched trellis. He brings it up to his nose to inhale the scent. ‘Do you know what this is?’  
Rosemary shakes her head. ‘It is beautiful, though.’  
‘It’s called a moonflower. Though simpler in design in comparison to the orchard or rose, they hold their own unique beauty. Understated minimalist can be just as lovely, don’t you think?’  
‘Is this the part where you compare me to a flower?’  
‘ “Should I compare thee to a rose?” ’ Julian tucks the moonflower behind her ear, the tips of his fingers trailing through her hair ever so gently. ‘It does look rather fetching against your hair. Hard to believe they are pollinated by such pests.’  
‘Oh?’  
‘Are you fond of bats, Miss Hawthorne?’  
Her mind conjures their image--a torso of filthy matted fur born aloft by thin leathery wings. Her nose wrinkles in disgust. ‘Not particularly.’  
‘Then it might serve you well to pull these flowers up from the root, lest bats find their way to your home and roost there. That is, to say, if they haven’t already.’  
‘I hope not.’ She glances around, dreading to see a small silhouette soaring overhead. A shiver trails down her spine.   
‘Are you afraid?’ He startles her with his voice whispering from behind in her ear. ‘Not to worry. I can keep you safe.’  
‘You’re going to defend me from bats?’ She laughs nervously. His body lingers so close to hers.   
‘Anything that would bring you harm.’   
Rosemary turns to face him. He is gone. ‘Julian?’  
Footsteps behind her. She catches the sight of him retreating behind the rose bush.   
‘Julian, wait!’  
‘Over here.’   
She follows the sound of his voice, gathering her skirts above her ankles to allow her haste.   
‘Where did you go?’   
‘Follow my voice.’ He sounds distant, to the western corner now.   
Only the cherub statue awaits her, the darkness casting truly gruesome shadows across its face, contorting its angelic features into a demonic grimace. She turns away, slamming right into Julian’s chest.   
‘Oh! Julian…’ She places a hand over her heart. ‘I apologise. I didn’t know you were behind me.’   
He grins, a hungry glint in his eye. ‘Did I scare you?’  
‘Of course not!’   
‘No need to be embarrassed. Perhaps you are right to be frightened.’   
She laughs, but her uncertainty quickly silences her. His expression remains unchanged, mischievous and almost predatory.  
Julian leans in, very slowly and carefully closing this distance between them.   
‘What are you doing?’ She steps back, trapping herself between the stone walls and Julian. Her heart beats faster now. Julian must hear it thundering in her chest.   
He tips her chin upwards, their lips inches apart. No breath parts from his lips, but her’s leaves her body in laboured pants as fear wraps its icy hands around her throat. Julian moves his lips to her neck. His tongue runs along her pulse point. Fear paralyses her limbs and voice. Her cries of refusal remaining trapped in her mind. His lips gently kiss her neck. Rosemary's skin crawls in terror and disgust. He nips her with his teeth, drawing a whimper of pain and fear from her. She feels his lips curl into a smile against her skin.   
'Julian, please.'  
He audibly shushes her, pressing a finger to her lips. 'Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.'  
'Then allow me to leave.'  
'You don’t trust me?'  
Silence lingers. If he doesn’t like her answer, even God couldn’t know what wicked revenge he would exact, but the devil might.   
'Nothing to say. Are you that afraid of me?'  
Another moment of silence. Rosemary closes her eyes to hold back the tears that may spill. When she opens them, she meets Julian’s.   
‘I want you to do something. Then I will release you.’  
‘What do you want?’  
Julian bites down into his forearm. Rosemary turns away in wordless disgust as droplets of blood bloom from the punctures. She smells it in the air, metallic and sickening.   
'Drink.'  
‘Have you gone mad?’  
‘You said you would do anything. Drink.’   
Something washes over her mind as he speaks the last word. A calmness burning away her dread and compelling her to do as he instructed. She raises his wrist to her mouth, lightly licking at the wound, encouraging the blood to flow into her mouth. The flavour is not what she expected. Metallic, but with rich and spicy undertones like mulled wine. More delicious than any wine she ever tasted.   
Julian pries her away. ‘Not too much now. You don’t want to harm me now, do you?’  
‘No, no, of course not...I...what’s happening?’ Something in her feels different. Her weariness lifts from her shoulders, replaced by strength and vitality.   
Julian gently caresses her with a pleased smile. 'Something wonderful. Our new life together.'


End file.
